The Viking's Captive Page 15

On the other hand, she’d asked for time, not this ominous silence. Apart from finding out if Rorik could fall in love with her, it wasn’t unreasonable to want to know her husband better. Especially when she was dealing with a Viking who used a Christian oath whenever it suited him? ‘Jesu’, he’d said. And tonight wasn’t the only occasion.

  She frowned as she remembered the night she’d tried to escape. Not only would she swear that Rorik had said ‘Oh, God,’ not ‘Gods’, when he’d pulled her into his arms, he’d also told her she wouldn’t have made it to Winchester before being recaptured. She hadn’t thought to question him at the time, but how had he known that Winchester, a full day’s march from any coast, was the usual location of Edward’s court? How, for that matter, had he recognised the royal standard flying over the hall at Selsey?

  She turned her head. With the small window unshuttered, and her eyes now adjusted to the dark, she could just make out Rorik’s long form stretched out on the other side of the bed. She thought he’d folded his hands behind his head, but there was no sense of relaxation about him.

  ‘Rorik?’

  His voice sliced at her through the darkness. ‘Yvaine, I expect to spend a damned uncomfortable night. I suggest you not add to my problems by testing my control.’

  Silence fell again, with an almost audible thud. Yvaine lay utterly still. Dismay threatened to overwhelm her. The uneasy suspicion that she hadn’t thought through all the consequences of denying Rorik his rights in the marriage bed began to stir. And yet, how else could she protect herself? Loving him, how could she surrender her body while withholding her heart?

  The answer to that was still beyond her reach when she fell into an exhausted slumber.

  She awoke as she’d woken for the past five years. Tense, wary, instantly alert.

  It was just as well. The first thing she saw was Rorik, watching her from less than a foot away. They lay facing each other. The early morning light streamed through the window making his eyes glitter like diamonds encrusted in ice. It also illuminated with nerve-tingling clarity, the intent, searching expression with which he studied her.

  She stared back at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the pulse leaping in her throat.

  He did, of course. A faint frown drew his brows together. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. ‘Am I such an ogre, Yvaine, that you should wake like that? Braced as though awaiting a blow.’

  After the stony silence in which she’d fallen asleep, the regret in his voice shook her immeasurably. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t you. I fell into the habit at Selsey.’

  ‘Then you don’t fear me?’

  ‘No. At least…No.’

  ‘Good.’ A smile dawned. Coming up on one elbow, he captured the strand of hair he’d brushed aside and began to wind it around his fingers.

  Yvaine immediately shifted to keep some distance between them, and found herself on her back with Rorik leaning over her. She blinked up at him, wondering how she’d managed to put herself in such a precarious position. She was glad Rorik’s anger had passed, but for someone whose wedding night hadn’t gone according to plan, he was looking far too pleased with himself.

  She levelled her brows at him. ‘What do you mean, “good”?’

  ‘Well, in order to know me better, you’ll have to permit a certain amount of intimacy. That would be difficult if you feared me.’

  ‘Intimacy?’ she squeaked. ‘But…’ She couldn’t continue; her mouth had gone dry. When had that happened? For that matter, when had she lost the small advantage she’d gained last night? She had the distinct impression Rorik was about to turn the tables on her, but she wasn’t sure how.

  ‘Stop!’ she ordered as he leaned closer as if to kiss her. She thumped a small hand against his chest and gasped as the heat of his skin struck her. Warmth enveloped her instantly. She wanted to curl closer, to nestle into that seductive heat.

  ‘You’re not going to seduce me into changing my mind,’ she stated, and wondered who she was trying to convince.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he murmured, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. ‘But even if I did, you can always say no whenever you like.’

  She eyed him cautiously. ‘And you’ll stop?’

  ‘I’ll stop.’ Still holding her captive with nothing more than the fragile shackle of her hair, he bent and closed his mouth over hers.

  Oh, the sweetness. The thrilling ripple of pleasure. His kiss was a seduction in itself, a siren call to surrender. Something softened, opened, trembled deep inside her. She wanted to sink deeper into the mattress, to feel the weight of his body over hers, to have him part her lips with his tongue. Not with the fierce pressure he’d used before the storm, but as he’d done that night on the beach, gently tasting, gently taking.

  Tentative, uncertain of what she might unleash, she returned the pressure of his mouth. He shifted the angle of his head, shaping her lips to his, tracing their outline, enticing her to the same seeking movements. Her fingers pressed into the muscles of his chest. She lost all sense of time; knew only the slowly spiralling pleasure of his mouth moving on hers. And, again, that strange yearning ache.

  He raised his head and looked down at her, eyes narrowed and glittering.

  Yvaine swallowed and tried to speak. It took several attempts before she realised she didn’t know what to say anyway. The hard beat of his heart against her palm seemed to have robbed her of thought.

  But it was that powerful rhythm that restored a sense of caution. It was too heavy, too fast. Tension hummed in the small space between them. The muscles against her hand were like tempered steel.

  ‘’Tis morning,’ she managed, in a voice that sounded as if she was calling a timid creature to her side, not trying to hold off a considerably more dangerous one. ‘This isn’t…I mean, we’d best be up and about—’

  ‘I doubt anyone will expect us to be up with the thralls.’

  ‘No, but…’ She drew her hand away, clenching her fingers against the sudden loss of heat. ‘That…reminds me. What am I supposed to do here?’

  He watched her, as if weighing the strength of her resistance, then shifted his gaze to the curl he’d captured. Slowly he began to unwind it.

  ‘While Gunhild is mistress here, why not rest, recover from the past few days. When she’s gone you may do as you please. Within reason.’

  She ignored that last bit. She wished she could ignore the hand that almost…oh, almost…brushed the tip of her breast as he straightened the curl wrapped around his hand. ‘You intend to send her away?’

  ‘I’ll see she’s well provided for, but I won’t have her in the same household as you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She thought about that. ‘What about Othar? Will you send him away, also?’

  ‘Mayhap,’ he said absently, watching the curl spring back when he released it. He immediately recaptured it and began to unwind it again. ‘He needs to be kept busy.’

  ‘Is that wh—?’

  She broke off with a gasp as his knuckles brushed her breast in passing. Her nipple tightened on a thrilling little tingle of pleasure, but the sensation was so fleeting she wasn’t sure if he’d meant to do it. ‘Is that why he had to leave Norway? Idleness?’

  His hand stilled. His gaze flashed to her face. ‘You seem very interested in Othar all of a sudden.’

  Yvaine swallowed. She’d barely been aware of what she was saying, had been talking only to retain some hold on her senses. Now it appeared she’d stumbled into another pit. ‘He is part of the household,’ she said. ‘And your brother.’

  He frowned. Then with an abrupt movement that left her feeling horribly bereft, he untangled his hand from her hair, turned and rose from the bed. Keeping his back to her, he flung up the lid of the chest, ignoring the clothes on top that promptly slithered to the floor, grabbed an undershirt and yanked it on.

  Yvaine watched as he continued to dress, torn between relief and a sharp sense of loss. Then he turned to face her and the feeling of aba
ndonment wasn’t quite as keen-edged. The muscles in his jaw were locked tight, but his eyes weren’t cool as she’d expected.

  ‘Perhaps ’tis best you know,’ he said. ‘Othar was challenged to a fight and disgraced himself.’

  She sat up, drawing the bearskin to her shoulders and wrapping her arms around her upraised knees. ‘A duel? Do you mean a joust?’

  ‘No.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to pull on his boots. ‘He’d wronged a man. Forced the fellow’s wife, or so she claimed. In our duels, the one challenged strikes first, and when Othar failed to draw blood with his first blow he ran from the ground. I had to pay compensation to prevent him becoming a target for revenge from his opponent’s family.’

  ‘Rather like our Saxon wergild,’ she murmured. ‘Where the victim’s family receives payment from the culprit.’

  ‘Aye, but in this case I had to take Othar away until the talk died down. Not only had he attacked, or tried to seduce, a virtuous woman, he’d branded himself a coward.’

  ‘Hmm. No wonder he and Ketil were friends.’

  A fleeting smile came and went. He stood, picked up his dagger, sheathed it, and fastened it to his belt. ‘That was a little different, sweeting. Ketil offered marriage. Probably because Orn’s family run a prosperous ale-house and Ketil saw an easy life ahead, with as much drink as he could hold. When Orn refused him, Ketil took the girl, intending to force her into marriage.’

  Yvaine raised her brows, but not a flicker of awareness crossed Rorik’s face. She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She got him drunk and managed to escape unharmed. Unfortunately she didn’t find her way home until the next day, so Ketil put it about that she’d spent the night with him. Orn, being the only suitable male in the family after his son died last year, challenged Ketil in order to prove him a liar.’

  Yvaine fell silent, considering the different codes of behaviour implied in Rorik’s explanation. Apparently he saw nothing odd in the fact that it was permissible for him, or any other man, to carry off a woman when a-viking, so long as they adhered to a strict code of honour at home. Was it because the victims of viking raids were English? But if that was so, why had he married her?

  ‘That’s where I’ll be this morning,’ he said abruptly. ‘With Orn’s family. I have to tell them what happened.’

  She looked up, quick sympathy overriding all else. ‘I’m sorry, Rorik. That sort of thing is never easy. But it wasn’t your fault. Unless you can see the future.’

  He halted, half-turned away from her, before reaching for the door. ‘It shouldn’t have been difficult in this case.’

  ‘No, but—Wait!’ she cried as he twisted the key in the lock. When he glanced back, frowning, she searched for something to say, to keep him with her a moment longer. His abrupt leave-taking, without a touch, or even a word of farewell, was dismaying. He was so changeable this morning; indulgent one moment, curt the next. For someone bent on seduction, he couldn’t seem to leave fast enough. And she was as contrary.

  ‘Rorik, what ails your father? I might be able to help him, ease his pain.’

  His frown cleared, but the sombre look stayed in his eyes. ‘The healers say his heart is tired. There’s nothing to be done, nor will he accept help. And speaking of help,’ he added before she could argue, ‘you’ll have to manage without Anna this morning. Though no accusation was made, Gunhild will be the first person to enter this room once we’ve both left it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She glanced down, not sure if guilt or embarrassment was heating her cheeks. ‘I can manage to dress myself,’ she muttered.

  He nodded, hesitated as though he might say more, then opened the door and left.

  The moment Yvaine stepped into the hall all activity stopped. The slaves tending the cookpots simmering over the fire looked up and stared. Ingerd paused in her task of shaking out the bench furs and fixed her with beady eyes. From a corner of the room Anna stepped forward, only to halt when the girl beside her caught her arm.

  Gunhild rose from her seat at the loom and moved towards her, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

  Yvaine braced herself as the woman approached. She would be polite if it choked her. ‘Good morning to you, Gunhild.’

  ‘That is yet to be seen,’ Gunhild retorted, sweeping past her into the bedchamber. ‘And ’tis nigh on noon.’

  Yvaine grimaced at the woman’s retreating back. Then, spying Egil hunched in his chair, watching the encounter, decided boldness might win her respect from that quarter. She crossed the room, walking with considerable care so she wouldn’t favour her bandaged knee.

  Instantly the air of tension in the room was dispelled. The slaves exchanged knowing smiles and turned back to their pots. Ingerd pursed her lips thoughtfully. The girl with Anna nudged her and said something that banished the look of concern on Anna’s face.

  And Egil’s gaunt features relaxed into a faint smile. ‘Here, girl,’ he said, indicating the place beside him.

  ‘You’re moving as if you spent the night riding hard. Or being ridden,’ he added with a rusty chuckle. ‘You’d best sit down.’

  Yvaine gave him a prim look and obeyed.

  He chuckled again, and slumped back in his chair.

  ‘Should you not be resting, my lord?’ She eyed the bluish tinge about his lips. It had occurred to her that Egil could answer several questions that had nagged at her after Rorik had left, but she didn’t want the information at the expense of the old man’s precarious health.

  ‘Plenty of time to rest in the grave, my girl. And call me Egil. We Norse don’t hold with high-sounding titles. The name we’re called on our name-giving day and a nickname earned later are good enough. Except for those with an ambition to be king,’ he added grimly.

  Yvaine tilted her head. ‘That would be King Harald, I expect.’

  ‘Hmph.’ He peered at her. ‘You’re well informed. No tavern wrench, then. Aye, King Harald.’ He gave a snort.

  ‘Harald Fairhair he was once called, before he put a crown on his head and announced at the Gulathing he was King of all Norway. Nothing but a land-grabbing tyrant, if you ask me. And when he didn’t grab a man’s land, he demanded money.’

  Yvaine raised her brows.

  ‘You think those of us who go raiding aren’t any better? You’ll understand when you look about you, girl. We cling to the edges of the fjords here. During summer our sheep graze on the lower slopes, but the winters are long and hard, and further north there’s nothing but ice and snow. Only the Lapps make a living there from fur trading and whaling, and Odin knows they’re always on the move just to survive.’

  ‘So you fight to win more land.’ She nodded. ‘’Tis not so different in England.’

  ‘Aye, but there you have land for the taking. When the men who defied Harald lost their farms, they had nothing. Not all turned towards England, you know. Nor even Normandy.’

  ‘What became of them?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Packed up and went to Iceland.’ Egil shrugged. ‘Sounds like a nice inhospitable sort of place, doesn’t it? But the colony prospered. The people formed their own Thing with its law-speaker and justice for all.’

  ‘But you stayed.’

  ‘No one drives me off the land that’s been in my family for generations,’ Egil growled. Then added with a cynical snort, ‘At least, not so long as we pay tribute.’

  Yvaine watched him, wondering if the tribute exacted by the king was another reason for Rorik’s viking raids.

  ‘Aye, we kept the land,’ the old man murmured. He sank deeper into the furs wrapped about his shoulders, staring into the fire as though the past could be seen in the flames.

  ‘And yet, despite that, I was worried that Sitric would go off to Iceland. He was always a rebel, and Rorik would’ve followed him into Hel itself.’

  Yvaine went still, hardly daring to breathe. ‘But he didn’t?’ she asked very softly when nothing more seemed forthcoming.

 
‘No.’ Egil stirred. ‘Settlement was too tame for Sitric. The young hothead joined up with Guthrum, King of the Danes.’ He sighed, shook his head. ‘’Twas the year I took Gunhild to wife. You’d have thought Sitric had battles enough here to fight. He and Gunhild hated each other on sight, and he resented the way she treated Rorik, especially after Othar came along. But that didn’t stop him leaving one night without a word to anyone.’

  ‘Not even to Rorik?’ She frowned, remembering Rorik telling her he’d been ten that year. A rebellious older cousin, standing between him and an unpleasant stepmother, would have seemed like a hero to a young boy.

  ‘Just as well,’ Egil said drily. ‘Sitric knew what I would’ve done if he’d taken Rorik with him. Thor’s hammer! The boy wasn’t yet full grown, although strong and as brave as any warrior twice his age.’

  Yvaine smiled and he grinned faintly in response. ‘Aye, I’m proud of my son. Why not? And Rorik was more than capable of fighting his own battles, so don’t go thinking Sitric abandoned his cousin. He was a man to be proud of, also. I’d raised him from a lad, my dead brother’s son, and he was like a son to me.’

  ‘What became of him?’

  ‘Hah! You have all a woman’s curiosity, girl, but ’tis no gentle tale. Suffice to say that Sitric didn’t see much excitement with Guthrum either. That same year Guthrum and Alfred of Wessex signed a treaty and the Danes settled in the east of England. The Danelaw, you English call it. Sitric stayed in Guthrum’s service, but he was restless. Every time he came home I wondered when he’d leave Guthrum for another leader, or to fit out his own ship. Then, after that last visit, four years after Sitric joined the Danes, Rorik went with him.’

  ‘To England?’

  ‘Aye, to England. And six years later Sitric died. That’s all you need to know, girl. If Rorik wants to tell you more, he will. But know this. Family honour is the most important thing in a Norseman’s life. If a kinsman is slain, then vengeance will be taken. There’s no choice, no argument. Sometimes the head of a family, or the finest, may be killed, though he disapprove or not know of the initial crime. And it doesn’t only apply to sons and brothers, but to cousins of the remotest degree, to foster children who’ve lost their own father, like young Thorolf, and to any who marry into the family. Honour, girl. Remember that.’